


A Sturdy Gust of Wind

by Lefaym



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, PWP, Post-Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne awakes to a most delicious mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sturdy Gust of Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to kath_ballantyne and iamshadow for the beta!

Phryne Fisher awoke to the most delicious of mysteries. She felt no rush to solve it; her bed was snug, her sheets were soft against her bare skin, and the gentle patter of London rain on the window made her disinclined to move. Nonetheless, as she made the slow and languorous transition into consciousness, certain facts made themselves apparent:

  1. There was a warm and pleasingly solid presence in the bed beside her.
  2. A delightful ache in her loins suggested that she had enjoyed the previous night’s activities extremely well.
  3. Her stomach was a-flutter, as though she was about to fly off a trapeze, hijack a train, or incite a small revolution. Perhaps all three.



The first two points on their own were not terribly unusual, of course, but the third -- now, that was the interesting one. Why, when the rest of her felt so utterly relaxed and satiated, was her stomach dancing the Charleston? She cast her mind back, and--

Oh. _Oh_.

Phryne felt a smile spread its way across her face. Heat bloomed in her chest, and she bit down on her lower lip, because it was almost unbearably pleasant. When she couldn’t take it anymore, Phryne rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow to allow herself a better view of the man who slumbered beside her.

He lay nestled amongst her jade-green pillowcases. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, and his face, relaxed in sleep, had an almost boyish cast to it. Without thought, Phryne extended a hand and ran a knuckle along the line of his jaw.

His breath seemed to catch a little at the contact, and a few moments later his eyes blinked open.

“Hello, Jack,” said Phryne.

A hint of a smile played at his mouth. “Good morning, Miss Fisher.” 

The first time Phryne had piloted a ‘plane alone, a sudden and unexpectedly powerful updraft had caught her as she descended towards the landing strip. In that moment, Phryne had known that she might die; that all of the terrible and wonderful things she intended to do might have ended there on a field in Somerset. She had also known that she would spend the rest of her life courting that feeling, if only to prove that it could not beat her.

In the intervening years, Phryne had drunk that heady cocktail of terror and exhilaration more times than she could count, both in the air and out of it; certainly she’d had many far closer confrontations with her own mortality since that day. But here, in this small Bloomsbury flat with Jack Robinson waking up beside her, Phryne was struck by the thought that very few moments in her life had so perfectly replicated that first sensation of being tossed and buffeted by a sturdy gust of wind.

The trick was -- as Phryne had understood instinctively all those years ago -- not to fight the wind, but to go with it as far as possible. It might still be your undoing, but if you went with it, you at least stood a chance. And so Phryne cupped Jack’s face in her hand, leaned in, and kissed him.

“I hope,” said Jack some minutes later, “that you have no pressing engagements today.”

“Well,” said Phryne, reaching beneath the bedclothes, “there is one thing…”

Jack closed his eyes and drew a long shaking breath at her touch, but within a few moments, that iron self-control reasserted itself, and he removed her hand from his person. “Nothing else?” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

Phryne pulled back just far enough to look into his face. “My larder is full, Mrs Liffey has been informed that no housekeeping is required today, and London’s murderers are under strict instructions to remain on strike for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

“Good,” said Jack as he brought his hand to the back of Phryne’s head, and pulled her back in. He shifted, Phryne found herself turned onto her back as Jack positioned himself on top of her. He held her lightly; she could move away if she wanted to, but Phryne found that for the moment she had no inclination to do so.

He brought his mouth to hers slowly and carefully, so different from the way he’d been last night. How wonderful it had been to see her quiet, reserved Detective Inspector come completely undone as she had her way with him; how perfectly they had fit together; how deftly he had brought her to climax, in the midst of his own abandon. 

Yet now -- now that their first urgency had passed, Phryne found Jack’s restraint equally satisfying. He kissed her deeply, and teased her with his hands. She kissed him back with equal care, learning which movements, which caresses, were most likely to elicit sighs and gasps and moans.

After what seemed to be an age (a very pleasant age that Phryne had not sought to hasten) Jack’s mouth moved to her throat. She pressed back into him, and allowed him to take his time, before his mouth moved lower still, to linger on her breasts. She murmured encouragement and ran her hands through his hair as his attention shifted to her stomach and her hips, and then without any prompting from her, he shifted, buried his head between her legs, and, _oh_ \--

Closing her eyes, Phryne sent out a silent prayer of thanks to Rosie or Concetta, or whichever woman in his past had schooled Jack so thoroughly in this particular art. And then silence became impossible, as did coherence. Her words came out in a jumble; his name, and, “Yes,” and, “Darling, yes, like that,” until her hips arched of their own accord, and her entire body shook with release.

For a moment, Phryne thought she had been dashed helplessly onto the ground, but then Jack was easing his way back up along her body, a small but satisfied smirk resting on his clever mouth and Phryne realised that, for now at least, she had landed. 

“Always so full of surprises,” she murmured when their faces were close once more.

“I try, Miss Fisher,” he replied. “Phryne...”

A shadow seemed to pass across his face as he said her name, and Phryne knew all at once that he feared a day when he wasn’t able to surprise her any longer; that Jack, too, had been caught in the wind. And there were no words, no reassurances she could provide, because one never did know how these things would turn out, especially not now, not with Jack. But she knew that at this moment, she had no desire to be anywhere other than where she was, so she moved in to taste herself on his lips, and he sighed into her mouth as the shadow retreated.

Phryne shifted beneath him, allowing him to settle between her legs. She could feel the evidence of his as-yet-unsated arousal pressing against her thigh, and she used a hand to guide Jack inside of her. His eyes locked onto hers, and she held his gaze as they began to move together.

“Phryne,” he said. “God, Phryne.” And then finally his restraint broke; he bucked forward into her quickly now. Phryne matched his rhythm, faster and faster, until he reached his own climax with a soft cry.

“Oh, darling,” said Phryne, bringing a hand to his face. “My darling Jack.”

Jack drew a long shuddering breath as he pulled away from her and lowered himself at her side. He buried his face in her shoulder and Phryne found herself suddenly swallowing against an unexpected lump in her throat. He had come so far, just for her, just because she’d asked him to. She’d made no promises or commitments, and still he’d come.

No wonder she was terrified. (How Mac would tease her if she were here.)

No wonder she felt as though her heart might burst. (How Dot would smile in that quiet way of hers.)

She ran her fingers through Jack’s hair, and felt him sigh against her skin. There was so much to show him, so much more of him to learn. So many more opportunities for both of them to be dashed upon the ground, and no way of knowing what was to be.

Phryne smiled, pressed her lips to Jack’s forehead, and held him close.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the prompt "early morning kisses turn into smut" from fera_festiva.


End file.
